


in my fantasies

by threadoflife



Series: femlock verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Female Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Femlock, Femslash, John has big boobs, Sherlock is a Size Queen, Sherlock is rather fascinated by them, and she likes to daydream, and when i say size queen i'm not talking about cocks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 04:58:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9419753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: Sherlock is a size queen.But then, to be fair, John has a rather magnificent chest.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i was having feelings about femlock because no one else did
> 
> my phone is my new laptop apparently
> 
> as always unbeta-ed, unedited etc.
> 
> can be found here on tumblr
> 
> http://wssh-watson.tumblr.com/post/156188167137/isitanylittlewonder-wssh-watson

Sherlock has a very intense thing for John’s boobs. She tries not to stare too blatantly—she is creepy, yes, but that is another kind of creepy—but ends up estimating anyway. Double D? Depending on the bra, her estimate changes. Sometimes John wears one that makes them look particularly tight and a little flatter, as if she’s fourteen and they’re only just beginning to grow. Sherlock doesn’t like that bra at all.

Her favourite is the one John wears on lazy nights in. No underwire, just loose straps, and Sherlock can barely keep her eyes from the magnificence of John’s chest then: it’s only in those moments that the heaviness of them are exposed, the way they weigh John down slightly when she sits with her elbows on her knees. They jiggle more easily, too, when John moves.

And they look so _soft_.

Sherlock thinks about it, sometimes, when she can’t sleep. She imagines sitting up in bed with her back against the headboard and John between her legs. John will have had a long day, and she will pull her bra off, groaning, stretching her arms over her head as she pitches the bra somewhere into the room. She’ll arch her back before turning to give Sherlock a lingering kiss, and then she’ll say, “Go on,” because she will know exactly what Sherlock wants.

Sherlock will settle her hands on John’s stomach and take a moment to breathe. She’ll slide them up, slowly, and she’ll make a sound in the back of her throat when her fingertips touch the undersides. She’ll bury her face in John’s neck and begin worrying the side of it with her teeth, and her hands will open—her fingers will splay—and they’ll cup John’s breasts, and they won’t be _enough_.

John’s tits will be heavy in her palms. Sherlock’s palms will be so _full_. She’ll knead them slowly, gently, without hurrying at all. Just to feel them in her hands will be enough to make her wet, and Sherlock will close her eyes against it. She will bite down on John’s shoulder, as if punishing her, just as her hands will tighten on John’s breasts. Then she will drop one, carefully, and take the left one—slightly larger—into both hands, and it will finally fit. Sherlock will push her fingers into the soft flesh, push and pull, then harder, then a little rougher. John will rumble a satisfied little sound.

“John,” Sherlock will murmur into her ear. John will shudder a little, and Sherlock will take her lobe into her mouth, will suck on it until it’s wet and John is squirming. “John, you’re lovely.”

John will make another noise and arch her back again, pushing her chest unmistakably out so Sherlock will return to it. Sherlock will breathe a laugh against her wet lobe—earning another shudder—and then she’ll return to John’s tits, one hand on each of them, and she won’t be gentle this time. Her kneading will be harder, and she’ll pull—push them together—squeeze—go back to kneading. Her hands will slide more towards the centre, palms supporting the undersides, and her thumbs and index fingers will find John’s puffy, tight nipples, and she’ll pluck at them until John will be cursing her name.

“Touch yourself,” Sherlock will say, and she’ll barely have said it before John will have her hands inside her pants. Sherlock will stare, raptly, down John’s neck, past her own large hands kneading John’s tits and playing with her nipples, at John’s thighs spreading and her hands moving inside the boxers she prefers to wear.

The rhythmic movements and the slick sounds will be enough to make her hands tighten on John’s tits again, her beautiful, heavy tits—a considerable heft in each of her hands, bulging out of them even though Sherlock’s hands are large and her fingers long, and the thing Sherlock adores most: they are so malleable. They’re not the tight, high ones Sherlock herself has. They’re large, and gravity has left its mark on them.

This is Sherlock’s favourite fantasy.

Her other one is John on top of her—with Sherlock’s fingers between her legs, on her clit or buried inside her—but always John on top of her rocking back and forth, growing increasingly wilder, and her tits—Jesus, her tits _bouncing_ , making a little slap when she moves too fast and they bump against her ribs, Christ—maybe she’d allow Sherlock to hold them while John would touch herself, maybe she’d even allow Sherlock to bury her face in between—

“Sherlock?”

John’s concerned voice tears Sherlock out of her contemplation. Her eyes snap open, and she stares over her folded hands right at John, who’s leaning down slightly, staring at her.

Sherlock blinks.

“… You ok?” John asks, frowning. “Only you… were breathing a bit quickly.”

That’s right, Sherlock realises. She’s breathing fast. Her pulse is elevated, too. Her cheeks are on fire.

And she’s so, so wet.

It takes all she has not to grimace.

“Yes, fine,” she says, closing her eyes again to evade John’s curious gaze. “I was thinking.”

After a considerable pause, John says dubiously, “Fine,” and judging from the sounds she retreats back to her own chair.

Sometimes, Sherlock doesn’t know if “married to my work” was the best or the worst thing she’s ever said.


End file.
